I'll Take a Rain Check

It is that time again. Pencils. Paper. Long lines at Target. Crazed suburban stay-at-home moms dueling to the death over the last $1.49 stapler on the rack, their children learning a valuable lesson in elbowing and dagger eyeballs. Lurking motorcycle cops, seemingly cloned overnight. The random seasonal 'college' furniture display in the grocery store, which, really, who actually buys a room-sized rug from Fry's? "Let's see, eggs, milk, rum, toilet paper, ohhh! A room-sized rug! In grey and red! With a 1/16th inch pile. For only $60! I know it wasn't really on my list, but it is such a great deal!' Setting the alarm clock every night -- then checking it 2,000 times to make certain that it is set to the radio station that I like, the one that plays classical music, not classic rock. Going to bed at a reasonable hour.

I'm not ready.

It is only Tuesday, Day Two of the New School Year, and I am just not ready. I want a rebate coupon on my summer. Can't I have just another week? There is just so much I meant to do!

I suppose it does make logical sense, though, to end the summer at this point. Heck, even George Michael has returned to Europe for the final three shows of his concert tour. But still. I haven't yet done it all. I have a few more items on my list.

What about the rest of my Europe Trip photos? Some of them still need to be uploaded to Costco's Photo Center. It isn't just that, though. They have to be printed so that I can collate them into their proper albums. I was going to select the best ones and frame them. I even bought the frames. On Sale! I can't possibly return to work with that looming over my head!

And, my bookcase! I was going to sell my entire collection of Psychology Books. I had finally come to terms with the idea that my collection of Classical Therapeutic Literature was never going to actually have a starring role in the background of a therapist's office in a film version of The Sopranos, even though I happen to know of a therapist who was able to rent her books to a movie studio to provide just such authenticity. I get it, Universe, most film production crews don't know or care about the fact that I have a well-rounded bookcase with such super-stars as Rollo May and Piaget, covering topics pertinent to the entire human life span. I was going to figure out a way to sell them all, though. Oh no, returning to work with that task still on the agenda does not bode well. I'll come home from work, and there they will be, staring at me. Making me feel guilty for keeping them trapped on the shelf, where I no longer feel impressed with their titles and classic binding. They could have a home with some other person. Someone more enthusiastic and appreciative. Instead, they are stuck here, gathering dust, feeling unloved. A bad omen, indeed.

I never spent an entire day on the couch, reading a book, dirty dishes gathering around me.

Or baking a batch of cookies from a new recipe that was both healthy and delicious.

Or deep-frying egg rolls that I had made from scratch. I just never got to do that this summer.

Or getting a massage. I had sworn up and down and all around the town that this was the summer I was going to get a weekly massage -- because I'm worth it, don'tchaknow?

Or do 30 Days of Pilates. My abs are only going to go downhill from here -- in fact, I think my posture is starting to suffer. Am I growing shorter? Great -- I'm starting a new school year and I'm shorter. Perfect.

What about organizing the garage? Well, maybe next year, I guess. That one I can, in good faith, let go. I hadn't really believed myself when I promised to do that. Plus, I was crossing my fingers, so I'm pretty certain that doesn't count. Right?

And my blog! I have all of these great stories about my fantastic adventures from this summer. Are they anywhere on this blog? Nope. Not even a photo. For all anybody knows, I made a tent out of blankets and camped under my dining room table all summer.

Did I say one week? I need nine. Nine weeks. At least.

Make-a-Wish Foundation -- You're Off the Hook!

OHMYGOD! OHMYGOD! OHMYGOD!

This is the best Monday ever. EVER, ever! Ever, in the entire history of ever.

I just found out that I no longer have to get leukemia in order to access the Make-A-Wish Foundation to just see George Michael in concert. He is actually going to be touring the United States and Canada this very summer.

Back to breathing in and out of the paper sack.

George Micheal. My dream man since I was nine years old.

I.can't.hardly.believe.it.

I'm thinking about going on tour with him... ok, maybe not *with* him, per se. Not actually in his plane or tour bus or hover craft, though I am certainly not opposed to that. (Call me, George Michael's people, I am a great road tripper! I know all of the best places to stop for pie and flea circuses!)

No, I was thinking I would follow him from city to city and blog about it. I do have the entire summer off. It could be the Best Road Trip Of All Time (TM) -- a quiet yet oddly extroverted when-placed-in-the-proper-circumstances girl, following the best singer in the universe as he traverses North America. The possibilities of hilarity are endless. I could stop in a ghost town, meet some local folk, toodle through a used bookstore, glam myself up for the night, and then be in the front row, cheering! The next day, back on the road, after a slice of coconut cream pie at the local diner, my giant coffee tankard overflowing, my camera battery freshly charged. My Pontiac Vibe ever ready and eager to transport me to the next venue. Ohhh, it could be magical.

Note to John Mayer -- I'm sorry, John. We've had a great run. I loved your first tour through Mesa. I was impressed both times in Tucson. I personally booed that idiot who threw a water bottle at your head and was ready to chase them down through the crowd of supportive boyfriends who bought your concert tickets for their swooning girlfriends and amputate their blasphemous arms. I own all of your cd's and never once illegally downloaded so much as an mp3 of your music. I'd even decided to look past that time that you decided to date Jessica Simpson. I didn't understand it at the time, but now I get it. She's blond and enthusiastic. I get it, really. George and I, though, we go way back. He was there for me that first time that one of my jerk childhood friends made fun of my shoes. He cheered me up when I was stood up. He and Aretha made the most fantastic song about optimism that I have yet to hear -- I know and believe that the valley is low, and nothing stopped me. I'm sure you can understand.

Come, let's look at some photos:

















And why not? Some very excellent videos:

I guess every singer from the 80's had to experiment with rapping:



Fast Love:



Flawless:



Too Funky:



I'm Your Man:



Edge of Heaven:



Freedom:



Praying For Time:



These Are The Days of Our Lives:



Somebody to Love:




Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me -- Just ignore that other guy.

Monkey

The sunglasses and shorts crack me up every time: Club Tropicana


The very best television commercial that you have likely never seen:

Foux de fa fa!

I'm a little obsessed:

Foux de fa fa!

I should be studying Algerian politics, the latest updates on Arizona Standards of Education and cooking an apple crumble pie. Mais, non.

Voila -- le conversation a la parc!

Just Me and My Clone

I've been thinking about cloning.

I've always said that I would be the happiest girl in the world if I could just have a clone of myself made. I would send her off to do the things that I find distasteful.

She could have lab work done and get her cholesterol tested. She could throw up on the phlebotomist's shoes and have the dentist tell her that it is all in her mind, this terrible fear of needles that she has. She would probably really like to return 100 phone messages. Washing the dishes is just as fun as finding that the back of her pants have been covered in cat hair for most of the day. This clone, she likes to wear all of the clothes that I should wear but I am too lazy to iron. Not only would she press them, she would use the fancy linen water, making them smell like Egypt in the Spring time.

My clone, she never procrastinates. She always pays all of her bills on time, especially the electric bill, and knows exactly which movie will be arriving from Netflix before they even send out a reminder email. I know my clone would have a green thumb and will be able to finally answer the question of why the marigolds on the right side of the yard have grown so much faster and taller than the marigolds on the left side of the garden. She will even know how to make perfect tarts! She would never buy lemon filling -- she would make it herself, using the juice of snow lemons from a tree that she cultivated from a tiny clipping that she brought back from a tiny hilltop village in Spain.

I would bring my clone along to parties and she would tell charming stories about my foibles. I probably wouldn't like that very much and might not invite her along the next time. She would begin to resent me, but wouldn't say anything about it. She might open a new credit card at K-Mart and secretly begin purchasing little things from Martha Stewart's Home line. It would be unlikely that I would notice at first -- that Martha Stewart, she makes some lovely blue tea-towels. This would irritate my clone, and she would buy new tires and home appliances. She would check the mail before I had a chance to, pulling out the credit card bill. She would hide it, along with the past due notices. Suddenly, I would have a terrible credit score and my kitchen accessories would be repossessed by the bank. My clone would glare at me as I realized that she was ruining my life.

I would have no choice. I would have to eat her.

At least the FDA agrees with me.

Cue The Spooky Vineyard Music

I'm amused by the idea that the scary, scrawny, writhing guy with a spinal tattoo of a huge scorpion who famously sang: 'Learn to swim, I'll see you down in Arizona bay....' is now the proud owner of Caduceus Wines in Northern Arizona. I'm generally not the star-struck kind, but there is a certain roadside attraction quality to the idea of this place. It is all the more appealing considering one of his bottles is called 'Chupacabra,' or goat sucker. If the wine has anything in common with that craziness, well, it might just be good. Or at least quite red.

Forty Six and Two

Cold And Ugly

Aenima

What next? Rob Zombie is going to open an upscale Hollywood Baby Boutique for newly expectant starlets such as Nicole Richey and Christina Aguilera? Rachel Ray will design a new line of household goods for Emo Kids? This just might work.

Jive Turkey

One day until Thanksgiving.

I like this holiday. No presents. Nothing too churchy. Just family and friends and a pair of really big pants and the goal of being prone on the floor, so full that the only noise possible is this one:

Gluuuuhhh.

I'm in charge of the yams this year. This is exciting, since I am a Super Yam Fan. In years past, all manner of yam atrocities have been committed - marshmallows, nuts, pineapple, apples, brown sugar, corn, lemons, coconut, orange zest, raisins. Not this year. Nope, I'm making Baptist Lady Yam Pie. It will be so fantastic that I am thinking about making some right.this.moment.

In other news, I've been talking like a robot from the 70's today. I've noticed that using a fake accent (this robot is from Ukraine) makes me feel more creative. I've been looking for a link that properly illustrates exactly how one could replicate this sound, but to no avail. Instead, I got sidetracked and listened to a series of Neko Case songs.

Hold On, Hold On

That Teenage Feeling

Which made me think about the Ditty Bops:

Wishful Thinking

Which made me think of Mike Doughty:

27 Jennifers

Which made me think about that surfer who recently explained the way the world works, but charmingly couched in 'Whoa Dude' Speak:

Just goes to show you that sleeping in a yurt really is the way to go.

Which then made me remember that I've been meaning to listen to the absolute best Andrew Bird song that I like so much, which, in turn, always makes me think of Anita Blake, Vampire Slayer:

Fake Palindromes

This, friends, is exactly the way that my mind works.

The Third Best Day of the Year

All Souls Procession 2007

I look forward to this event all.year.long. It fulfills some of the key elements of any great fantasy: Walking in a parade, waving to onlookers as though I am the Queen of Holland, wearing a fantastic costume for which I already had the belly dancer's coin belt, feeling both famous and anonymous at the same time, and being amongst my kin -- those who find it completely reasonable to dress in costume and walk down the street for several miles and then go out to dinner on the other side of town.

Oh -- you want to see photos? Above, we have the lighting of the urn. Filled with prayers, hopes, wishes and messages to the dead, this is the reason for the parade. All 10,000 of us walked behind it, some more jingly jangly than others. Of course, it was the grand finale, but I'm just so proud of this photo. Brassai, anyone?












































































































Media from the event -- the videos and slide shows capture the grander scheme of things. One cannot simultaneously participate and photograph 10,000 people. I tried.

One of the best quotes from the Procession: 'Yeah -- the bellydancers always slow things down. It doesn't matter how many times we wait for them to catch up, they just can't help it. This year, several groups from Vegas flew in for the event. We recruited extra volunteers to keep them moving." Dang those slow bellydancers.